


We'll Meet Again, Punk

by triskele_93



Category: Captain America, MCU, Marvel
Genre: Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, M/M, Stucky Big Bang 2016, The author loves Bucky more than herself, bucky pov, mentions of torture, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-26
Updated: 2016-08-26
Packaged: 2018-08-11 05:37:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7878562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/triskele_93/pseuds/triskele_93
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"So will you please say hello, to the folks that I know. Tell them, I won't be long."</p><p>Best friends since childhood, Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes were inseparable on both school yard and battlefield. But neither of them planned for the horrors that would face them. This is a tale of friendship, love and loss spanning a lifetime or two.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We'll Meet Again, Punk

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the Stucky Big Bang over on Tumblr. I had so much fun writing it and I hope you guys enjoy reading it. I've included a playlist that I put together for it to help set the tone as well.

[We'll Meet Again, Punk ](http://8tracks.com/derekstriskele/we-ll-meet-again-punk?utm_medium=referral&utm_content=mix-page&utm_campaign=embed_button) from [derekstriskele](http://8tracks.com/derekstriskele?utm_medium=referral&utm_content=mix-page&utm_campaign=embed_button) on [8tracks Radio](http://8tracks.com?utm_medium=referral&utm_content=mix-page&utm_campaign=embed_button).

Drip.  
Drip.  
Drip. Drip.  
Drip.

The room was dark as he opened his eyes, the only light coming from the small windows high up on the walls. He tried to take a deep breath in but the strap across his chest restricted much of his movement. Taking stock of more straps across the tops of his thighs and across his ankles, he tried to move his hands and feet but found any movement restricted.

Drip.  
Drip.  
Drip.   
Drip. Drip. Drip.  
Drip.

He couldn’t turn his head much to see where the dripping noise was coming from, but he had a strong feeling that it was coming from behind him. It was soothing, in a way. Trying to predict how many drops would come through, counting them to help pass the time. Although he had stopped counting them whenever the Germans entered the room he was being kept in. Well, he couldn’t concentrate on much aside from what they were doing to him. He took as many deep breaths as he could to ward off the panic that was brewing, panic wouldn’t help him out of this situation. Once his heartbeat slowed slightly, the memories came back to him.

There was an ache in his bones that he couldn’t place, minute shivers were racing through his muscles and across his skin, his clothes were sticking to him where the sweat had pooled across his body, his throat felt raw and there were drying tear tracks leading into his hair. But underneath all of that was a deep, clenching fear waging war with a hot, burning anger. He didn’t know how long he had been kept in this room, he didn’t know how long it had been since he had thrown himself between a young man from Kentucky and the swinging fist of the German soldier. He had been dragged off almost immediately, the guards shouting at him and each other in rapid fire before he was thrown into a cell and beaten. 

Then had come the little man. It had probably been a few days after he had been left there, but he had lost track of the days in here. They all blended in to one after a while. The little man had come into his cell and looked at him as he tried to make himself as small as possible. The man was short, had thin, wispy blond hair on top of a round face, with small eyes accentuated with round glasses. His voice, when he spoke, was soft and accented and he spoke English as fluently as he spoke German to the guards. He hated the man. There was something about him that had always set his teeth on edge, had brought up a fear in him so primal and animalistic that it had scared him. Of course, this was before the man had started to hurt him. When he had been brought into this room, he had expected to be beaten, tortured, starved but he hadn’t expected the table in the middle of the room, the desk in one corner with its surface covered in papers and notebooks, the map on the wall with markers in certain locations. 

The pain that he had experienced had brought him to tears on many occasions. It felt like fire pouring through his veins, followed by ice. At first he had screamed for help, but soon he had realised that no one was coming for him, none of his friends could hear him. 

There was the sound of footsteps in the corridor and he strained to hear what was happening. He hoped the little man was not coming, that he may be spared the pain for that day but he knew that he could not hope too strongly, they had a talent for knowing when he was fighting back.

“Jede Änderung?”

“Nein.”

“Der Arzt wird ihn bald wieder zu sehen.”

“Er geht nirgendwo hin.”

Silence fell in the corridor again. The dripping water again became the only sound that he could hear. After some time had passed, there was the sound of a new set of footsteps in the corridor, lighter and quicker than the heavy steps of the soldiers. Shuffling at the doorway told him that the soldiers had stood to attention before he heard the murmured greeting,

“Doktor Zola.”

He managed to turn his head to the side just enough to see the little man enter the room. So his name was Zola. He passed by the slab, removing his hat and coat as he did so and placing them on the rack near the desk. He turned to the desk and began to shuffle some papers, opening notebooks and pulling out pens. Finally, after the silence had been pressing on his eardrums, Zola turned to him and smiled.

“Guten Tag, Sergeant Barnes.”

Bucky kept his lips clamped shut. The questions were always the same at this point. Although the lack of communication from him did not seem to deter Zola in any way. He just kept smiling and began moving around the room, pulling out things that he felt that he would need throughout the session. Sometimes he would speak to Bucky, sometimes he would be completely silent. Today, he began to speak almost immediately. 

“You have been very brave, Sergeant Barnes. You have lasted longer than many of my other subjects, it’s true. They were not as, how do you say, tough as you, no?” 

He laughed slightly, almost delicately, before turning back to Bucky, a small tray held in his hands. He moved towards the slab, standing at Bucky’s left side and staring down at him. He placed the tray down and began to make his customary preparations, speaking all the while.

“It will not be long, I think, before you break. Although I do have to ask you, what is it that you are holding on to, hm? What is keeping you alive, Sergeant Barnes?”

He peered down in to Bucky’s face, but Bucky stared resolutely at the ceiling. He had not answered any of Zola’s questions so far, he was not about to start now. He clenched his teeth together, trying to brace himself for the pain that was going to come from whatever it was that Zola was going to pump in to him. He took deep breaths in through his nose, keeping his eyes trained on the ceiling, hands clenching into fists and relaxing over and over again. There was a sharp jab in his arm, and within seconds the pain was roaring through his body. He clenched his teeth harder to keep the scream from pouring out of him, but eventually couldn’t hold it in anymore. The scream ripped its way from his throat, his back arched against the straps holding him down, the muscles in his legs contracting. He slammed back down on to the slab, his head turning from side to side as he continued to scream. 

After what felt like hours, the pain and the fire receded, leaving a dull ache in its wake. Bucky was breathing heavily, fresh tears running into his hairline, his breaths catching in his chest, hitching as he forced himself to try and calm himself. There was the sharp taste of copper in his mouth, he had bitten his tongue. Zola appeared by his side again, peering down into his face, notebook held aloft. Bucky swallowed again and again, trying to stop the twitching of his muscles as Zola took notes on his appearance. He pinched Bucky’s arm, prodded at his chest and turned his head. He wrote a few sentences in his notebook before looking back at Bucky.

“How did that feel, Sergeant Barnes? Did it feel worse or better than the last times? Where did it hurt the most?”

Bucky couldn’t answer. He continued to stare at the ceiling, ignoring Zola. Then a sharp pain exploded down the side of his face, his eyes flicked towards Zola who held his hand aloft, ready to strike him again. With great effort, Bucky looked back at the ceiling, ignoring the roiling sensation in his stomach. 

“I will not ask you again, Sergeant Barnes. How did that feel?”

Bucky swallowed one more time before opening his mouth to speak. Zola seemed to stiffen in surprise at his cooperation, leaning forward to hear what Bucky would say.

“Sergeant Barnes. 32557038. Sergeant Barnes. 32557038. Sergeant Barnes. 32557038.”

Zola reared his head back in disgust. He stalked back to his desk, slamming the notebook down before storming out of the room again. 

“Ihr beide. Folge mir.”

The footsteps moved down the corridor and Bucky was once again left in darkness. He licked his dry lips, still forming the words that had been drilled into him in basic training. His mind was racing, cataloguing where his body hurt the most, whilst still trying to combat the darkness creeping into his vision. His head swam and he stumbled over the words.

“Sergeant Barnes. 3255….  
32……  
70…  
3255….”

He didn’t know how much time had passed before Zola came rushing back into the room. He barely paid any attention as he moved around the room, picking up papers and notebooks, placing them in a briefcase before picking up his coat and hat before leaving the room again. There was another sound of heavy footsteps running down the corridor and then stopping. Then there was the lighter sound of footsteps moving into the room. Bucky closed his eyes and continue to mumble the words seared into his brain.

“Sergeant Barn…. 3255  
325…  
Sergeant….”

There was a presence by the side of the slab. He braced himself for Zola or for a soldier to pull him from the slab into a cell when an American accent breathed a word he hadn’t heard in a long time. He opened his eyes to the sound of the man’s voice,

“Bucky!”

He stared at the ceiling, fear racing through his body. He knew that voice. But there was no way, it was impossible… A face swam into his vision, blurry and undefined, he almost flinched as he began to recognise the features as belonging to Zola. Then the face moved and the voice whispered,

“Oh my god.”

There were snaps as the straps holding him to the slab were broken, the constriction around his ribs disappearing. He blinked a couple of times, trying to understand why Zola sounded so much like him when he knew that it was impossible. He slowly turned his head to the side, watching the vision come closer to him, feeling hands clasping at his shoulders, gently but certain of their place. He wondered if he was dead, and this was his reward in heaven. If God had decided that he had done enough, that he could rest now. But as quickly as that thought came to him, he dismissed it, he couldn’t believe that God would be so cruel as to take Steve from him while he was not there to say goodbye.

“Is that…. Is that…?” 

He tried to speak but struggled. It seemed almost too preposterous to say that he was here, when Bucky had tried so hard to keep him away from the war and the danger and the pain that came with it. But as his vision cleared he found himself looking into familiar blue eyes, as he leaned over him.

“It’s me, it’s Steve.”

Not only could Bucky feel fear and anguish racing through him, but he could also feel a sickening joy. Steve was here! He had come for him.

“Steve.”

Steve helped pull him off of the slab, still clasping his shoulder with one hand the other moving between his chest, his wrist, the side of his face before settling back on to his shoulder. As Bucky struggled through the vertigo that had come over him, he could swear that Steve’s eyes were wet, that his breathing was more laboured through emotion. Steve continued to stare at him, eyes flicking over his face.

“I thought you were dead.”

Bucky blinked rapidly up at Steve. Steve, somehow, had grown taller in the time it had been since Bucky had shipped out. His shoulders were broader, his spine straight but his voice was still the same. Bucky could hardly believe the transformation, the man in front of him was his Steve, but very very different. Bucky tried to think of something to say, but all he could manage was a weak,

“I thought you were smaller.”

Steve’s grip on his arms tightened before he pulled them out of the room and in to the corridor. As they made their way down it, Steve looking over his shoulder all the while, Bucky took the opportunity to rake his eyes over Steve. He looked good, Bucky had always thought that Steve was beautiful in an ethereal, angelic way but now he was rugged and handsome. Tall and strong where once he had been small and fragile. He didn’t seem to suffer from his asthma anymore, but apart from that Bucky couldn’t tell if he still suffered from any of the other ailments that he had in the past.

“What happened to you?” he gasped.

“I joined the army.”

As he held himself up on the wall, staggering slightly in his attempt to keep up with Steve, the sounds of explosions and gunshots made their way to him. His thoughts drifted to the men that he had shared a cell with, he wondered if they had made it out and were fighting for their freedom, whether the boy from Kentucky was still alive. If he was, Falsworth would look after him. He brought his mind back to Steve and tried to speak without letting him know how much pain he was in.

“Did it hurt?”

“A little.”

“Is it permanent?”

“So far.”

Bucky grinned to himself. Steve had always hated Bucky knowing how much pain he was in while he was ill, so it made some sort of perverted sense that he would only respond with short answers. They continued to make their way through the building, passing rooms that Bucky didn’t recognise before they found themselves on the viewing platform over the factory. The machines underneath them had burst in to flame and the heat was searing. They made their way towards a bridge over the factory floor but were stopped by a shout across to them.

“Captain America! How exciting. I am a great fan of your films”

Bucky was confused. He had no idea who this ‘Captain America’ was and he was just about to pull Steve away to find another way to cross when Zola appeared from behind the man in black. Ice ran through Bucky’s veins, his eyes were fixed on Zola and he felt paralysed to the spot. He didn’t hear what was being said to Steve by the man in black, his attention entirely focused on Zola, but his eyes were drawn away when the man in black seemed to pull off his skin, revealing a face that was scarlet and blistered underneath. Under his breath he muttered to Steve,

“You don’t have one of those, do you?”

Unfortunately, Bucky’s question wasn’t answered. The man in black and Zola disappeared and Steve was tugging him up some stairs to find another way across. There was a long joist that they could walk across like a bridge, with a door on the other side. Steve helped Bucky clamber over the railing on to the joist, a frisson of panic running through his voice.

“Come on. One at a time.”

Bucky steadied himself on the joist, calculating the journey that he had to take. He slowly began to make his way across, one foot in front of the other, his eyes occasionally flicking to below him where the explosions rocked the building. As he reached halfway, the joist jolted. Bucky stopped moving, his arms flung out to his sides, before starting to move again. He practically ran to the rest of the way, reaching the railing and grabbing hold just as the joist fell into the flames roaring beneath them. As he hauled himself over the bars, he turned back to face Steve. They were trapped on either side of the factory with nothing but an inferno between them. Bucky frantically looked for something that could help Steve get across to him, fear racing through him at the thought of losing his best friend. He couldn’t leave Steve behind, not again. His grip on the railing was becoming so tight that the skin of his knuckles was turning white.

“There’s gotta be a rope or something.”

Steve raised his arm and waved it at Bucky.

“Just go, get out of here!”

“No, not without you!”

The scream tore its way out of Bucky’s throat, the desperation he felt colouring his words. Steve must have sensed his fear because he started to push a piece of the railing away to create a gap. Then he took a few steps back, still looking at Bucky. Suddenly he ran towards the edge, and before Bucky had enough time to scream at him, he leaped into the air, the momentum carrying him across the gap. Bucky lunged forward and caught Steve’s jacket, hauling him over the railing and giving him a quick check for and injuries. Steve then pulled him forward towards the door.

They raced down a maze of corridors to what Bucky hoped and assumed would be the way out. As they got closer however, the sounds of gunshots and shouting suddenly made themselves clearer to him. He froze, leaning against the wall again, fear holding him to the spot. But Steve took hold of his hand and gently started pulling him again. 

“C’mon Buck, it’s okay.”

Bucky started staggering down the corridor towards the door, pushing it open with his shoulder. As they burst in to the open air, the sight that greeted them took Bucky’s breath away. All of the men that had been held prisoner were fighting the guards that had held them, fighting with stolen guns, shouting at each other in a variety of languages. As soon as they saw Steve, they stopped. They held the guns by their sides and watched him. Bucky looked around for the men that he had been held with but couldn’t see them. He hoped that they had gotten out, Dugan would lead them well. He looked to Steve, hoping that he had a plan for their next move. Steve drew himself up and in a commanding voice called to the men to follow him, that he could lead them to a base with medical supplies for those who were injured.

In a matter of moments, the men were organised so that those who were injured could ride in or on the tanks that Steve told them to take, there was an agreement that they would rotate the men who were riding on the tanks so that everyone could have a chance to rest. Bucky was helping a man up on to the tank when someone clamped a hand down on his shoulder. He whirled around and came face to face with a smiling Dugan. Timothy ‘Dum Dum’ Dugan was a stout man with a ruddy face, adorned with a ginger moustache and topped off with a non-regulation bowler hat. Bucky felt his own face split into a grin as he flung his arms around Dugan’s neck. Dugan’s own hands slapped on his back as he laughed into Bucky’s ear. When Bucky pulled back, still grinning, he saw some of the other men gathered behind Dugan, each sporting smiles of their own.  
Falsworth, with his thin moustache and his red beret, Jones with his gleaming smile and twinkling eyes, Morita with his own facial hair beginning to show through, arms around a beaming Dernier who was babbling away in French. Bucky’s heart clenched, and his eyes watered slightly, these were the men that he had bonded with so quickly, these were the men who had stood up for each other against the guards. He moved quickly and was soon engulfed in a group hug, each man trying to pat each other on the back but sometimes missing and patting each other on the head instead. After a moment, Bucky pulled back and smiled at them, he wiped his eyes and looked back at Dugan,

“So Steve managed to get you out, eh? I woulda’ left your ugly mug inside!”

The men let out barks of laughter and Dugan cuffed him around the head, but his smile was still visible under his moustache. His eyes were hooded and shadowed, but still retained a spark that Bucky knew could brighten his eyes even in the darkest of moments.

“So, it’s Steve is it? The goof walking around looking like the American flag?”

Bucky grinned at Dugan. He knew that Dugan was grateful for what Steve had done but that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to be nice about it. He shook his head, clapped Dugan on the shoulder and moved away from the tank as it started to roll away, the other guys followed him as they moved into formation in the surge of people moving out of the compound gates.

“Yeah, that’s Steve. Still don’t know how he got so big. I’m gonna have to try and drag that outta’ him later.”

He looked around at the men following him, they were still smiling and Jones and Dernier were muttering between themselves in rapid fire French. He grinned, leaving them to it, before looking back at Dugan who was now looking at him with a considering expression on his face. Bucky frowned, before lowering his voice,

“What?”

Dugan shook his head, waving his hand as if swatting a fly. He looked forward at the men in front of them, before suddenly looking back at Bucky.

“What happened to you in there? You were gone for ages. We all thought you were a goner.”

Bucky’s stomach dropped, he didn’t want to tell Dugan about Zola or about the fire in his veins or the nightmares that he knew would plague him until his dying day. He didn’t want to tell him about the crushing sense of hopelessness that had covered him like a shroud, he didn’t want to revisit the scene of his undoing. Instead he gave a small smile and shook his head.

“Nothing good, pal.”

Dugan looked like he wanted to press the issue but was cut off by a shout from up ahead. 

“Bucky! Buck!”

Bucky raised his hand and waved, letting Steve know where he was in the crush of people. Up ahead, Steve could be seen pushing through the mass of people in his desperation to get closer to Bucky. When he finally caught up with them, he smiled sheepishly and clasped Bucky’s shoulder.

“Couldn’t find ya, panicked.”

Bucky smirked and threw his arm around Steve’s shoulder, noticing with some sadness that he had to reach up now instead of lean down, he didn’t let it show on his face as he, Steve and the rest of his friends plodded onwards towards safety.

**********************************************

They’d been walking for a few days when he noticed the changes. He didn’t tire as quickly as the others, his injuries healed much quicker than the others, he didn’t need as much rest as the others. But he was also quieter than the other, more prone to silence and solitary thought than to join in with the noise and the laughter that the other men enjoyed. They were still reeling from their escape from the Germans, still disbelieving that someone cared enough to come and rescue them that they didn’t look too far ahead.   
He knew that Steve watched him, just like he also knew that Dugan and Morita watched him. He had been sent to Morita for a check over but had watched with a sinking heart as Morita had been unable to find any fresh injuries on his body. He had laughed it off, telling Morita that it would take more than a German doctor to bring him down and had walked back to Steve with his grin frozen in place. 

He was changed.

In the time it took for them to walk back to wherever Steve had come from, Bucky learned about the SSR, about Dr. Erskine, and about the experiment that Steve had undertaken to become a part of the war effort. He had had to hold back the tears as Steve described the pain that had come from the experiment, the pain of his muscles growing faster than his body could keep up with. He looked at his gentle, courageous friend, and could only see the weapon that they had turned him into.

In turn, he told Steve everything that had happened since shipping out from Brooklyn all those months ago. He told Steve about Dugan and his bowler hat, Dernier’s explosives, Jones’ easy going nature, Morita’s jokes and Falsworth’s steadfastness. He told Steve how they had become comrades in the compound, how by some unspoken agreement, they had become the leaders of the soldiers that were left. He didn’t tell Steve anything about Zola though, only telling him that they thought they would be able to get information out of him, and how quickly they had realised that they had taken the wrong person. He made sure to end these stories with a smile, but he knew that Steve didn’t believe him. There was something between them now, something that he didn’t know would ever be forgotten.

Steve led them on through forest, rotating the men who could ride on the tanks with the ease of a man beyond his years. The men all fell into line behind him, bowed to his rank and his knowledge of what waited for them. They were all looking forward to being able to wash, to sleep lying down as opposed to sitting up, to being able to eat, that they were perfectly willing to follow a man that they didn’t know through the German forest. 

When at last the camp came into view, the tension that had been hanging over the men dissipated as quickly as smoke in a wind. Steve led them into the camp, with Bucky on his left, surrounded by the men that he had singlehandedly rescued. The men in the camp ran to meet them, welcoming friends and comrades that had been believed to be dead with open arms. Steve marched straight up to a slightly stooped man, with grey eyebrows and a stern face. Steve snapped off a salute, staring at the Colonel.

“Some of these men need medical attention. I’d like to surrender myself for disciplinary action.”

The Colonel looked at Steve, before turning his head and taking in the scenes around him.

“That won’t be necessary.”

Bucky watched as he walked away, his attention suddenly diverted as a brunette woman stepped forward leaving barely an inch of room between them, her eyes raking over Steve before drawing herself up and stating,

“You’re late.”

Bucky watched as Steve took something out of his pocket, holding it up for her inspection before replying,

“Couldn’t call my ride.”

The woman was staring at Steve, clearly trying to hold back a smile. Bucky felt a churning in his stomach as he turned to the men around him and shouted,

“Hey! Let’s hear it for Captain America!”

The men around them started to cheer and clap, the noise deafening in the close proximity. Bucky himself joined in clapping watching as Steve looked around and took it all in. Bucky knew that this would be strange for him, he had never been applauded like this before. As if hearing his thoughts, Steve turned to look at Bucky, who smiled slightly and shrugged. As Steve turned away again, Bucky felt his smile drop from his face. He continued to clap, whilst the thoughts flew through his mind. No matter what Steve asked of him, he would do it. Steve needed him, although it didn’t look like it, he did. Bucky felt himself fill with purpose that he hadn’t felt in years. He knew, in that exact moment, that he would die for Steve Rogers.

*****************************************

Bucky watched as the group of men that Steve had assembled managed to convince him to get them more beer from the bar, scoffing as he turned back to the bar before sending a wink to the young woman who had set his glass of whisky down in front of him. She smiled and rolled her eyes before moving back into the main bar area. Bucky picked up his drink and turned to look at the table again. Steve he could see clearly, his blond hair glowing in the light of the bar, his uniform pristine even as he laughed at something Dugan had said. Bucky took a sip of his whisky, barely registering the burn in his throat as he continued to watch Steve. Steve had a small smile on his face, one side quirking up just a bit higher before quickly falling back in to a stoic look befitting his rank. As he continued to watch, Steve stood from the table, beer glasses in hand before moving through the crowd to the bar and placing them down on the wooden surface. Unwillingly, his eyes moved down the length of Steve’s body, he was taller obviously, his crooked spine had been straightened and he had filled out considerably. But the small smile, the blue eyes, and the golden hair were all still Steve. A few seconds passed before he started making his way over to Bucky who swivelled around on his stool towards the bar again.

“See? I told you. They’re all idiots.” 

He said as he lifted his glass to his mouth smiling slightly as he did so. He knew that the others would join Steve on his mission to destroy Hydra. In fact, Dugan had cornered him earlier that day to tell him that if Steve didn’t put them in his “super- secret team” he would just follow them across Europe and that the others would too. Bucky had suggested the men to Steve, knowing that they would be the best men possible to keep Steve safe. Steve huffed out a small laugh as he took a seat on the stool beside Bucky, his movements graceful and flowing rather than clumsy like Bucky still expected. He sometimes forgot about how much time had passed between him shipping off from New York to Steve rescuing him from Azzano. The days had all blurred into a mess that he couldn’t penetrate but he could bookmark the beginning and the end, with Zola and with Steve.  
Steve wasn’t looking at him as he began to speak, 

“How about you? You ready to follow Captain America into the jaws of death?”

He turned to face Bucky as he finished speaking, his eyes boring into the side of his head, another trait that had stayed with him despite the serum and the experiment. Bucky let out a soft snort at the image of Captain America leading a band of soldiers through enemy territory. Someone should write a book about that. He stared in to the middle distance as he answered with a resounding 

“Hell no.”

He tried not to let the residual bitterness that he felt creep into his words as he continued, 

“That little guy from Brooklyn who was too dumb not to run away from a fight. I’m following him.” 

He turned to look at Steve, watching his face for any sign of a reaction that might make it easier for Bucky to understand this new man sat beside him. Instead, Steve smiled then quickly looked away as the barman set a drink in front of him. As Bucky watched, an idea formed in his mind. The Steve that he knew blushed easily at any comment that could have been seen as being inappropriate. Bucky hadn’t had a chance to test whether this had remained the same or whether that had also been changed with the magic serum. Taking a swig of his drink for courage he leaned in towards Steve. He lowered his voice and said, 

“But you’re keeping the outfit right?” 

His eyes flicked towards Steve’s face, waiting to see the familiar flush cover his cheeks. Instead Steve seemed to almost sigh with exasperation, lifting his head and then looking at Bucky, a smirk gracing his features. He turned slightly to look over one shoulder at what Bucky knew was a poster for the Captain America show, complete with an image of the man himself. Amusement filled Steve’s voice as he replied, 

“You know what? It’s kinda growing on me.” 

Bucky had to smile at that, though it felt strained even to himself. There was another thing about Steve that they had changed.

Steve turned back to him and began outlining what the team would be going through in the time before their next mission, the tests that they would have to run, the debriefings that they would have to attend. Bucky just allowed Steve’s voice to wash over him, knowing that at least one part of his brain was making notes of what was being said, even if the rest of his brain was focusing on how smooth and rich Steve’s voice was. The men in the next room had started to sing a song and under the rumble of their voices was the sound of someone banging on the keys of a piano. There was the strong smell of bodies being crammed into one space hanging on the air, alongside the smell of smoke and alcohol. Bucky had almost begun to relax when suddenly the bar went quiet. He turned and leaned back on his stool to see what had caused the silence to fall, feeling Steve do the same next to him. What he saw made his heart plummet into his stomach. Agent Carter was stood in the doorway, striking in a bright red dress that clung to her figure. Bucky quickly rose to his feet, knowing without looking that Steve had done the same. She looked past Bucky to Steve and strode in to the room. When she spoke, her voice seemed lower and huskier than Bucky had ever heard before.

“Captain.”

Steve’s voice was steady as he replied with a respectful, 

“Agent Carter.” 

She moved to stand in front of Steve barely glancing at Bucky. He had just managed to get out the word, “Ma’am.” before she was turning back to Steve. 

“Howard has some equipment for you to try. Tomorrow morning?”

Bucky stood awkwardly between the two, trying to think of something to say to remind them that he was there, to draw them out of the moment that they had found themselves in as Steve’s voice came from beside him,

“Sounds good.” 

Carter turned her head to look in to the main section of the bar, and Bucky watched out of the corner of his eye as Steve took the opportunity to run his eyes over her figure, taking a deep breath as he did so. Bucky tensed his jaw, and looked down at the ground. He wanted to stand between them, to yell, to scream, to cry even. But he held all of this in, waiting. Carter looked back to Steve as the sound of singing carried in to the room. 

“I see your top squad is prepping for duty.” 

Bucky felt a rushing need to defend his friends. 

“You don’t like music?”

She didn’t take her eyes off of Steve as she responded with, 

“I do actually. In fact, when all of this is over, I might even go dancing.” 

Bucky felt a flash of annoyance, the very least she could do was look at him while she was speaking, he needed to draw her attention away from Steve, so he loosened his stance even more, softened the look that he knew was on his face and let some of the old Brooklyn drawl come into his voice, 

“We’ll what’re we waiting for?” 

To his dismay, Carter still didn’t take her eyes off of Steve. She stared at him like he was the sun come again after a long and cruel winter, Bucky knew that look well. That was the look that he knew often graced his features when looking at Steve, the look that meant while he was looking at Steve, he was looking at the rest of his life. Carter’s voice was still soft as she directed her answer to Steve, 

“The right partner.” 

Bucky glanced back at Steve to see the softest smile he had ever seen on his lips; he was clearly enjoying the clear inside joke as well as the fact that Carter had singled him out. Carter took a small step back and looked back at Steve, suddenly more business-like in her demeanour than before. 

“0800, Captain.” 

She started to walk away from them, Steve shaking himself out of the stupor that had seemed to come over him before calling, 

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll be there.”

They both turned back to the bar slowly, Steve still smiling slightly and Bucky trying to understand what had just happened. Confusion was racing through his mind, as well as fear and the burning sensation of jealousy. He felt his heart pick up as he remembered the dopey expression on Steve’s face as he looked at Carter, his mind raced forward to imagine a future that seemed more imminent than ever before; Steve in his best suit stood in a church, Carter at his side, glowing. Steve’s smile as he announced that he was going to be a father, the pride on his face as he held his child in his arms, and then the image that hurt more than anything, the image of Steve and Carter still together when they were old and grey, their children and grandchildren around them. For the first time in his life, Bucky wondered if he would have a place in Steve’s future. If he would still be the person that Steve would come to, if he was still the one who would know Steve’s dreams and hopes and fears. Bile rose in his throat as he spoke, 

“I’m invisible. I’m turning into you; this is like a horrible dream.”

He nodded as he looked towards the ground, he could already feel the future with Steve that he had imagined since he was a child slipping away from him. He was jolted back into the present by Steve’s hand clamping down on to his shoulder, 

“Don’t take it so hard. Maybe she’s got a friend!”

They both sat at the bar again, gripping their glasses in their hands again. Bucky looked at Steve out of the corner of his eye, a small smile was still present on Steve’s face, as well as the slightly dumbfounded expression that he always got when a pretty girl actually spoke to him. Bucky had to smile at that, at least the serum hadn’t managed to changed that. He took a sip of his whiskey and signalled to the barman that he wanted another one. He could feel Steve watching him as he smiled as the whiskey was set in front of him.

“Shouldn’t you be taking it easy with that, Buck? I need you sharp for tomorrow. We’ve got a meeting with Phillips about our missions.” 

Bucky had to laugh at that, he had been drinking pretty steadily all evening but he couldn’t feel the effects of the whiskey. Sure, he could feel the burn in his throat but nothing else. He turned his head to look at Steve, fondness radiating from every pore in his body. 

“It’s okay, Stevie. This is gonna be my last one then I’m gonna get some shut eye. I’ll see if I can wrestle Dum Dum out of your hair as well.”

It could have been a trick of the light, but Bucky could have sworn that Steve’s jaw clenched at the mention of Dugan. Bucky scoffed at himself, clearly the whiskey was beginning to make itself known. He took another sip and looked over at Steve.

“So, Carter eh? She seems……nice.”

He winced, hopefully Steve didn’t notice the slight hesitation and wouldn’t call him out on it. Steve choked slightly on his drink before turning to face Bucky with a stern expression on his face. Bucky had to smile, even though Steve was a Captain now, there were still parts of him that were as familiar as the peeling wallpaper of their old apartment in Brooklyn. Steve must have seen the smile threatening to cover Bucky’s face because he snorted and shook his head.

“Yeah, she is. She was even before I got the serum. It was like she saw me for who I really am and what I could do, instead of seeing the illnesses that everyone else did. I wasn’t   
used to it, so it was nice.”

He shot Bucky a small smile, and Bucky had to hide the fact that his heart was breaking. He wished that he could yell at Steve that he had always seen his potential, had always seen the bravery and the determination that kept his heart beating when the world seemed to want it to stop. Instead he just nodded, drained the rest of his whiskey and stood from the bar. Steve looked up in surprise, a question forming on his lips but Bucky just shook his head. 

“Whiskey just hit me pretty hard, that’s all pal. I’m gonna hit the hay, I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah? After your meeting with Carter and Stark?”

Steve swallowed and then nodded. Again, it seemed to Bucky that his jaw clenched but he dismissed the idea. He snapped off a salute and turned to leave the room, catching sight of Dugan and the rest of the team still drinking and laughing. Dugan caught his eye and furrowed his brow, but Bucky shook his head. Dugan nodded and turned back to Morita. Falsworth looked up at Bucky as he passed and nodded to him, rolling his eyes at Morita’s obviously exaggerated tale. Bucky laughed then waved and began to force his way through the bar. 

Once he got into the street, the cool night air hit him, bringing relief with it. He turned and began to walk towards where he and the team had been placed for the night, his hands stuffed into his jacket pocket. On the other side of the street a man was walking with his girl, laughing and holding hands. When they caught sight of Bucky they inclined their heads, before moving on. The English were odd, he thought to himself. They’d been in the war a lot longer than the Americans and yet they were the ones with the most hope. He did admire them for that, at least.

Eventually, he came to the barracks and quickly made his way to his own room. He was sharing with Dugan, who didn’t mind so much when he woke him up by screaming in the middle of the night. Finding his room, he quickly stepped in and began to strip off his clothes, boots dropped under his bed. He crawled into bed lying on his side and staring at the wall, waiting for sleep to come. Instead all he could see was Carter and Steve, staring at each other as he faded into obscurity. A sob caught in his throat and he began to cry softly, the tears soaking into his pillow as he brought his hand up to cover his mouth. 

****************************************

Bucky was sat in his quarters cleaning and polishing his rifle when there was a knock at the door. He stood and opened it, amazed to find Agent Carter on the other side of it. She was wearing a simple white blouse tucked into her skirt and a look of determination on her face. Her eyes flicked over his face and down the non-regulation state of his uniform. Her lips quirked slightly before she shook herself and looked into his eyes again. She seemed to be waiting for something, so he brought himself up to his full height and cleared his throat.

“Help you with something, ma’am?”

Her lips quirked again, this time in annoyance and her eyes hardened. 

“Yes, Sergeant I believe you can. May I come in?”

He wanted to say no, he wanted to close the door in her face and pretend that she had never been there. He wanted a lot of things really, but he knew that he would be reamed over the coals if news of the ill treatment of Peggy Carter ever got back to Colonel Phillips or to Steve. Instead he sighed, jerked his head and stepped back from the doorway, allowing her enough room to pass by him. She looked around the sparse room as she stepped further in to it, almost as though she expected to see something personal in there, something that would tell her more about him. Her eyes moved over Dugan’s pressed bed, the corners tucked in so tightly Bucky thought they should be screaming in protest, before moving on to his own messy and unmade bed. He closed the door with a snap, moving around her and sitting on his bed again, picking up the cloth and piece of rifle that he had been cleaning. She stood in front of him, shifting on her feet slightly before clearing her throat.

“I think we need to have a talk, Sergeant Barnes. I’ve become aware over many of our run ins that you seem to have a problem with me.”

He snorted, well, he hadn’t exactly been keeping it a secret. He continued polishing, staring intently at the metal in his hand.

“Have you now?”

“Yes, I have. And, quite frankly, I would like to know why. Is it because I am a woman? Is it because I am in the military? What exactly about me has you so annoyed at me?”

Her voice had remained level through this exchange, he had to give her credit for that. His ma and sisters had never had the same level of calm that Carter did, then again, they weren’t English.

“It ain’t nothing to do with you being a woman, or in the army. I’m just tired. It ain’t unnatural for a guy in this mess to be tired y’know!”

He laid down the metal in his hand and raised his face to her, a smile on his face that had nearly made the local priest from back home curse. She was stood stiffly, almost to attention, staring down at him. Bucky wanted to like her, he wanted to look at her and see everything that Steve clearly saw, he wanted to be able to know that she was the absolute right woman for Steve, but for some reason, he couldn’t. 

They were silent for a beat, staring at each other, unable or perhaps unwilling, to move an inch. Finally, Peggy heaved a great sigh and closed her eyes. When she opened them again, there was an emotion in them that Bucky couldn’t identify.

“I understand, Sergeant Barnes, that you have been through more than your fair share in this war. However, you were given the option to return home. You refused to take it, so forgive me if I don’t fully believe your reasons. If you have changed your mind and do, in fact, want to return home then you should tell Colonel Phillips before you are sent on your next assignment. Steve would understand.”

Bucky’s blood began to boil. 

“Steve? Don’t you mean ‘Captain Rogers’, Agent Carter? I was always taught that you were supposed to address people by their ranks, not by their first names. Unless they’ve gone and changed the rules on me?”

Peggy had the good grace to flush slightly, before drawing herself up again.

“Captain Rogers has always asked that I refer to him as ‘Steve’. Even before Erskine’s serum, he insisted that we be on first name terms. After his promotion, he asked that that remain the same.”

Bucky snorted.

“Yeah, well, Captain Rogers doesn’t always know what’s good for him. Like getting himself experimented on. Whose stupid idea was that? He could have died; you people could have killed him. And then where would you be? You wouldn’t have your precious Captain America to parade in front of citizens to trick them into thinking this war is actually going well.”

She arched an eyebrow at him.

“Steve knew the risks before the procedure. Dr. Erskine explained them to him fully and he was still willing to proceed with it. If he had felt at any time that he couldn’t go through with it, we would have stopped the procedure.”

Here she arched her other eyebrow as she continued to look at him.

“And I don’t think Steve would appreciate being babied by you, Sergeant Barnes, when you are acting rather like a baby yourself.”

Bucky snorted and then started to laugh. He knew that he sounded hysterical but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Carter looked taken aback for a fraction of a second before her face settled into the annoyance that Bucky was beginning to find familiar. He hiccupped slightly, wiping his eyes and he tried to stop himself from laughing. When he felt that he had himself somewhat under control, he looked back up at her. 

“I’m acting like a baby am I? Hah, that’s a new one, I’ll have to tell me ma that one, she’d love it.”

He continued to chuckle to himself as he picked up the barrel of his rifle. Suddenly Carter’s hand shot out, grabbed the barrel and threw it in to the corner of the room. Silence fell while they stared at each other, Bucky in surprise and Carter in anger. She was breathing heavily and her hands were clenched into fists.

“If someone wants to speak to you, Sergeant Barnes, the polite thing to do is to give them your full attention. Now, what is your problem with me?”

Bucky continued to stare at her, unsure of how to proceed. He knew what he wanted to say to her, but also knew that if he did tell her the truth, the consequences would not only be severe for him but for Steve as well. These were not exactly safe times, after all. Something must have shown on his face because suddenly, Carter was leaning back from him, comprehension dawning on her face.

“Is it my relationship with Steve? He’s still your friend you know, that hasn’t changed. At least not to my knowledge. I know that you are angry at what was done but you cannot change that now. Steve is an asset to this war effort and you had better bloody well accept that. If you were his wife I would understand but…..”

Her sentence trailed off into nothing. Her eyes widened and her mouth dropped open slightly. Bucky felt his own hands clench into fists, he ground his teeth together and jerked his head away from her. He stared at the window, too dirty to see through, but enough to give him a distraction from Carter’s incredulity. 

“Oh my god, you love him.”

He slammed his eyes shut, his breath coming in sharp pants as he held on to the fraying ends of his composure. 

“It makes sense now. Why you dislike me so much. You resent me.”

He huffed out a laugh, stood and moved around her so that he was facing the door. He braced his palms against it and tried to breathe in deeply through his nose.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Steve’s my friend. Plus, that’s a weighty accusation you’re throwing around there, could get me in a lot of trouble if someone were to overhear.”

Silence fell again, only broken by Bucky’s ragged breathing as he continued to lean against the door. He could still feel the anger and resentment growing inside of him, fighting for release like a caged animal, all it needed was a minor provocation before it would break free. He opened his mouth to ask Carter to leave, when her small voice broke through the silence, 

“I didn’t know, Barnes.”

It was like a fire had come raging from him in that moment. All of the pain, the fear, the anger, the hurt that he felt came pouring out of him, as he whirled around to face Carter.

“That’s right, you didn’t know! You didn’t! He was my friend, mine, and you took him from me! He needed me, he always needed me and now he’s got you, and Phillips, and Stark and where am I? I’m ignored, I’m invisible because you looked at him for two goddamn minutes and now it’s like I don’t exist! I spent my whole life looking out for Steve, keeping him out of trouble, fighting for him when he found trouble any way, hell, I went to fucking war so that he would still be safe and then you got your claws into him! You took my best friend, my Stevie, and you turned him into someone I don’t recognise. You took everything from me, and now you have the fucking balls to ask what my problem is? My problem, Agent Carter, is you! You took him away from me, and you’re gonna keep taking him away from me and it’s not fair because I LOVED HIM FIRST!”

Bucky came to the end of his tirade as tears began to work their way down his face, his chest was heaving with sobs and he held his head in his hands. He couldn’t bear to look at Carter, with her soft eyes and red lips, not while he was still so angry. He took deeper and deeper breath, rubbing at his eyes roughly before looking up and focusing on the wall behind her. 

“I think you should go now, ma’am.”

She stood for a beat longer before wiping at her face and then smoothing down her skirt. She sniffed and then began walking forwards. As she passed him, he flinched away from her, still staring at the wall. She stopped before she got to the door and whispered,

“I’m so sorry.”

Bucky didn’t respond and after a moment the door closed softly behind him. He took a few more heaving breaths before moving back towards his bed, picking up one of Dugan’s books as he did so. He sat heavily at the edge of his bed, book open on a random page but he didn’t read any of it. That was the first time he had said those words out loud, that was the first time he had put a name on the feelings that he had always hidden from the world and from Steve. Instead of feeling relief that he had finally said it, all he could feel was fear. What if Carter said something? He would be discharged and perhaps even arrested. He sighed, closing the book and staring down at the cover. Then he hurled it with all his strength at the door, where it landed with a loud thud before dropping to the floor. 

********************************************

The snow was swirling around them as they trudged up the mountainside. Stark had offered to fly them in but Steve had refused, saying that they needed to be completely unnoticed as they made their way to their destination. The cold was so sharp, it felt like the backs of their throats were burning every time they breathed in. The point that they would make camp at seemed to get further away with every step they took through the snow gathered up alongside the sides of the track that Steve was making.  
Bucky kept his eyes on Steve, as he always did. It had been a few months since his last, fatal run in with Carter but they had been deployed the next day to take down as many Hydra bases as they could. They had worked well as a team, Steve leading them with precision and care, ensuring that each member of the team was working to the best of their abilities as well as motivating them when the task seemed insurmountable. In that time, Bucky had managed to take down those who wanted to harm Steve, who wanted him dead or captured so that they could take him the Schmidt or to Zola. 

Bucky had hated that part of the war, the part where men were taken from their families by a single bullet because they were on the wrong side of a flag. Although, once Steve had joined in the fight, he had had to take that remorseful part of himself and bury deep in his own mind. He would burn Hydra to the ground to make sure that they never laid a hand on one golden hair on Steve’s head. Steve had taken to watching him whenever they were making camp, eyes burning into Bucky as he joked with Dugan or Falsworth, or as he threw his socks at Morita to get him to stop talking, or even as he sat quietly with Jones and Dernier, the soft cadence of the French language drifting over him. It wasn’t that Bucky had stopped speaking to Steve exactly, it was just that he would always keep the conversations professional, short and to the point. He could practically feel the confusion rolling off of Steve in waves whenever he changed the topic of conversation, but the memory of his argument with Carter was still fresh in his mind.

That didn’t mean that Bucky had stopped watching Steve though, although he did hope that he was subtler about it. He watched as Steve ran into Hydra warehouses with his heart in his throat, watched as Steve dodged bullets and Hydra goons with a grace that he had never had before the serum. He even watched when Steve slept sometimes, still watching out for the tell-tale rattle in his chest that signified an illness was imminent. But of course, Steve didn’t get sick anymore, he didn’t need someone constantly measuring his breathing, constantly checking how many layers he had on, constantly making sure that he had enough to eat. But that didn’t stop Bucky. 

Now he was watching Steve’s back as he forced his way through the snow to create a path for the others to make their way over. Falsworth was walking alongside Bucky, with Morita, Jones, Dernier behind them and Dugan bringing up the rear. Falsworth was humming under his breath and occasionally singing a small part,

“So will you please say hello, to the folks that I know, tell them I won’t be long, they’ll be happy to know, that as you saw me go, I was singing this song.”

Bucky turned to him, smiling. Falsworth caught his eye and flushed even darker. He mumbled something under his breath and punched Bucky lightly on the shoulder. Bucky laughed and punched him back. When he looked forward again, Steve’s shoulders seemed stiffer than they had before. He was just about to ask if Bucky should take over when Steve brought them out to the ledge that they would be making camp at. They all stumbled on to the ledge, Jones and Dernier immediately going to set up the communications device that they had brought along. Dugan, Falsworth and Morita all dropped their packs and began to find places to use as scouting posts. Bucky stood at the edge of the ledge and looked down at the train tracks as they stretched into the horizon. He had a bad feeling about this mission. He had been woken up the night before by a horrible recurring dream of one of the team slipping off of the roof of the train and being unable to catch them. The last thing that he remembered seeing in his dream was his own hand reaching out and grasping on to air as they slipped out of his grasp. 

It was one of the reasons why he had volunteered for this mission. He had been injured on the last one, making Steve unwilling to have him on his six, but Bucky had insisted that he come along, partly to keep an eye on Steve but also to ensure that his dream didn’t come true. As he looked out at the train tracks below, he felt a punch to his left shoulder.   
Looking round, he caught sight of Dugan smirking at him.

“Having second thoughts, pal?”

Bucky snorted. 

“Nah, just thanking god that it ain’t you going down this wire, otherwise we’d never get there!”

Dugan laughed slightly, shaking his head and faking a punch at him. Bucky ducked, still chuckling. He stood facing out for a few more moments before he felt a presence at his right. He turned, expecting to see Dugan again but instead found Steve staring at him. Steve opened his mouth and then closed it a few seconds later, before turning to face forward. Bucky waited. Then Steve spoke,

“So, you and Dugan. You seem close.”

Bucky waited for a second, trying to figure out if they were really doing this right now. He squinted into the swirling snow, feeling Steve’s gaze on the side of his face. He sighed, watching as his breath steamed out in front of him. Finally, he turned back to Steve.

“Yeah, we are. Y’know we were both in that compound together, he was in the 107th too, we just have a shared life experience. Why, you jealous?”

He ended with a smirk in Steve’s direction, but was surprised to see Steve frowning at the ground. He cast about for another topic of conversation to take Steve’s mind off the issue that he had presented.

“Remember when I made you ride the Cyclone on Coney Island?”

“Yeah, and I threw up?”

“This isn't payback, is it?”

“Now why would I do that?”

Bucky looked back over to Steve, happy to see him grinning at the memory. He felt calmer now that Steve was no longer dwelling on Bucky’s relationship with Dugan. From behind them, Jones spoke up. They turned to look at him and Dernier who were both crouched by the communication device that they had brought with them.  
“We were right. Doctor Zola is on that train. Hydra dispatcher gave him permission to open up the throttle. Wherever he’s going they must need him bad.”

They prepared to go. Steve, Bucky and Gabe all made sure that they had everything they would need in order to bring Zola in. As they moved past him, Falsworth lowered the binoculars from his eyes.

“Let’s get going because they’re moving like the Devil.”

Bucky watched as Steve wrapped his handles around the zip wire before lifting his own up and mimicking Steve’s movements. He felt Dugan pat him on the back, caught the eyes of Morita and Falsworth, giving them both a nod before facing forward again.

“We've only got about a 10 second window. You miss that window and we're all just bugs on a windshield!”

“Mind the Gap!”

“Better get moving, bugs!”

Bucky watched as Steve went flying down the zip wire before he too was given the command by Dernier to move. The wind whipped through his hair and stung his face as he watched for the signal from Steve to drop on to the roof of the train. As soon as he saw Steve drop, he followed, a thud from behind telling him that Gabe had also landed safely. 

He crawled across the roof after Steve, waiting for him to open up a carriage of the train for them to get inside. He followed Steve inside, gently sliding the door closed behind them.

They moved slowly through the carriage, trying to make as little noise as possible. Bucky watched as Steve went through the doors at one end of the carriage, moving in to the next one when suddenly, the doors slid shut. Before Bucky could realise what had happened, there were shots from behind him. He turned, placing his back against the door and pulled the trigger of his Thompson. He could hear Steve also firing in the next carriage, along with a strange, almost metallic noise that he couldn’t place. As he threw himself around the carriage, a calm fell over him. He started to calculate the movements of the men that he was facing, trying to figure out their next moves before they knew what they might be. Suddenly, there was a click from the machine gun in his arms, he had run out of ammunition. He threw it aside and crouched down behind the crates stacked up against the side of the carriage. He pulled out his Colt and began to fire again, moving from one side of the carriage to the other, trying to get his opponent in his sights. There was a click from his Colt, that too had run out of ammunition. 

He crouched again, drawing in deep breaths as he tried to quell the panic rising in his chest. As he crouched there, the door to the carriage slid open again. He could just make out Steve who threw another Colt to him before running in to the carriage and crashing into one of the crates, making the guard move out of the way, just in time for Bucky to shoot. He staggered forward, gun still raised at the guard lying on the ground,

“I had him on the ropes.”

“I know you did.”

Suddenly, the metallic sound came from behind them. Steve managed to pull Bucky behind him just as the figure in the doorway fired a bolt of blue lightning at them. It bounced off of Steve’s shield and blasted a hole in the carriage wall, flinging both Steve and Bucky in different directions. Throughout the carriage, Zola’s voice rang out ordering the Hydra goon to fire again and to kill Steve. Bucky looked up and found Steve’s shield resting in front of him, he picked it up, fitting it on to his arm, picking up his gun with his right. He fired a couple of shots before another bolt of blue lightning hit the shield directly, sending him flying back whilst letting go of the shield. 

He grabbed on to a rail on the wall of the carriage, his legs dangling over the ravine below him. He closed his eyes against the onslaught of the wind as the train hurtled across the tracks, the cold freezing his hands as he held on to the rail with all of his might. There was a clang from inside the carriage before Steve appeared at the opening of the hole, ripping his helmet off of his head and calling his name,

“Bucky!”

He could only watch as Steve levered himself out of the carriage and tried to find a way to hold on to the another rail. Bucky shifted himself along trying to get closer to Steve, who was holding out his hand to him, a look of absolute desperation on his face.

“Grab my hand!”

Bucky felt the rail he was holding on to jolt, and just as he reached out to Steve, the metal ripped away and he was falling, Steve’s hand still outstretched to him.

******************************************

He was falling. Falling. Falling. 

The wind was rushing through his ears. The sound of his own scream still reverberated through the air as he dropped like a stone into the canyon. His arms were still outstretched, reaching for something, no someone, that was now too far away. 

Suddenly a pain unlike anything he had ever felt before raced through him, radiating out from his left side. A ripping feeling was making itself know throughout his body, and his eyes closed, welcoming the darkness that followed the long drop.

******************************************

It was cold. So cold. And white. He couldn’t move properly, his arms and legs felt numb, and the snow was falling into his eyes. He didn’t know how long he had lain there for, or indeed how long he would lay there for, before the end took him. He hoped it would be quick though, nothing seemed worse than having to wait for death to come and greet him. His eyes closed against the blinding white around him. Maybe he could drift off…

His eyes snapped open again at the sound of voices drawing closer. He couldn’t understand them, but he knew that they were not allies. He tried again to move either his arms or his legs, succeeding in moving the fingers on his right hand but nothing else. He was trapped. 

“Здесь! Я нашел что-то.”

Russian then, he figured. He turned his head from side to side, trying to find the man in his periphery. More voices joined the first, their words jumbling together in their interest and confusion.

“Что это?”

“Мужчина.”

“Какие?”

There was the sound of crunching snow under heavy boots before, suddenly, two faces appeared above him. One of the men was young, the other older, his face more lined and harsher than his companion’s. They were wearing tan uniforms, lined to help protect them from the searing cold. He opened his mouth and winced as the words pulled at his throat,

“Help …… please.”

The men looked back at each other, fear and wonder covering their features. They stepped back, still watching him before returning to their previous conversation.

“Кто он?”

“Я думаю, что он американец.”

The older man looked thoughtful. He crossed his arms and continued to watch him. Silence pressed in around them momentarily before he huffed a sigh, uncrossed his arms and stepped forward again. He knelt in the snow, just out of reach, and kept his eyes fixed forward. When he spoke, he spoke in heavily accented English. 

“What is your name?”

“Sergeant Barnes. 32557038.   
Sergen… 3255….  
703…”

The man stood quickly and looked at something on the other side of him. He nodded and two hands roughly grabbed him and started to drag him through the snow. The man who had spoken to him followed, staring down at him with a frown on his face. He blinked sluggishly, trying to see where it was that they were taking him. Then he looked down his own body. What he saw caused his stomach to turn and his head to spin. As he looked down at the blue pea coat that was soaked through in many places, his eyes were drawn to his left side where his arm ended above the elbow. A trail of blood was being left in the snow from where it was dragging through the snow, and as he watched trickles of fresh blood poured out of it. He turned his head to the other side and vomited violently, then his eyes closed and he slipped into unconsciousness. 

*******************************************  
The cell was dark and damp. The bars across the front were slimy and slick with the water that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. There was no light save for one solitary lamp on the wall outside of the cell. The light couldn’t reach the far corners of the cell, so that was where he sat. The pain in his arm was no longer excruciating, but instead had faded into an ache that couldn’t be dulled. His clothes were damp and stinking, his hair matted with water and blood. His face was bruised from where he had been punished for fighting back and his back was covered in the slashes that they had made with whips. He made no sound, having learned that they were only encouraged by any sounds that they made. His eyes were fixed on the bars of his cell, waiting. A guard appeared and walked to in front of his cell. In his hands he held a small piece of bread and a small cup of water. He placed them on the ground in the cell, his hands struggling to fit between the bars, and then stood back, watching. 

He pulled himself into the circle of light cast by the lamp. His movements were slow as he pulled himself forward, his one arm slipping slightly on the wet floor. He reached the bread and the cup, wincing as the light hit his eyes, and picked up the cup. The water had a strange, metallic tang to it but he couldn’t bring himself to care as he drained it. The bread was hard, obviously stale but he tore through it like a wolf. Once he had finished he looked up at the guard, holding the cup aloft in a silent plea. The guard looked around him before taking the cup and filling it with more water from his canteen. When he passed it back, it was drained just as quickly as the first had been and then was taken away. The guard walked quickly back towards the door that he had entered from and left. He dragged himself back to the corner of the cell, his arm nearly giving way underneath him. When he was situated in his corner, he turned his eyes back to the bars at the front of the cell. The lamp on the wall suddenly went out and he was left in the darkness, with only the ache in his arm and the churning of his stomach for comfort.

*****************************************

The men were shouting orders at him in a language that he couldn’t understand. They were pushing him and shoving him, moving him around into different rooms where different tortures lay in wait for him. In one room, two men held him down while another would hold a flame to the soles of his feet. In another, he was tied to a slab as water was poured over his face. In another, they would chain his arms high above his head and would slice at his back with whips until he passed out. In others, they would just beat him, their fists raining down blows on his face, chest and back. He learned early on not to fight back, that fighting back only made them think up more tortures to experiment on him. When they had finished for the night, they led him back to his cell and left him there in the dark. When they came to retrieve him hours later, they always checked each of the injuries that had been inflicted on him to see how they had healed. If there was no trace of it, they worked harder to ensure that the injury stuck.

The days went on this way, a never ending cycle of pain, darkness and fear. The men did not try to speak to him unless it was to tell him to move or to sit or to stand. Though their hands on him would also help him to understand how they wanted him to move. Their hands and their movements were as harsh as the language they spoke, their eyes cold and their faces drawn. He didn’t try to fight them often but sometimes he would push back, would take a little longer to stand than usual, testing their reactions to his minor infractions. Normally, it got him a raised eyebrow and a shove but sometimes he was rewarded with a punch or a kick. These would sometimes send him off balance, his left arm whirling uselessly to try to help him balance. The guards would never offer to help him up, instead standing and watching as he struggled to his feet. If they were in a particularly bad mood that day, they might kick him and he struggled to his knees, sending him crashing back to the ground.   
When they had had enough of that they would pull him up and drag him back to the cell that they kept him in. Sometimes he would be fed, sometimes he wouldn’t be. He couldn’t keep a mental note in his mind of when he had been fed to make a pattern. In the end, he stopped trying. 

*******************************************

He had been sat in his cell for hours without being pulled out by his guards. He had sat in the same corner, staring at the lamp on the wall, watching the way it flickered sometimes, threatening to extinguish itself. He hadn’t been disturbed all day, no one had been by to give him food or water, to pull him out for his torture of even to point and laugh at him. He had been left alone, and he was feeling uneasy. Occasionally, he would hear a burst of laughter or of cheering, voices would climb over each other in their need and desire to be heard over their comrades. He had tried shouting for someone to come to his cell, but they either couldn’t hear them or they were ignoring him. His voice was hoarse from calling to them and his throat felt raw. His eyes were stinging from staring at the lamp for a long time before he closed them, the imprint of the lamp still burning in his vision.

A door clanged and his eyes snapped open. He watched as a man came into the room and moved to stand in front of his cell. In his hands he held a roll of paper, and his face was straining with the smile that stretched across it. He tapped the roll of paper on the bars of the cell, before raising his hand, one finger extended and beckoning him to move forward. He did so, slowly, dragging his body across the floor. He squinted as he came into the light, still looking up at the guard who held the roll of paper through the bars of his cell, his smile growing as it dropped to the floor. In accented English, he spoke;

“I hope this does not affect you too badly. We need you strong. But know you know, they will never come for you.”

With that, he turned on his heel and walked back to the open door, whistling as he did. The door clanged shut behind him causing the lamp to flicker as it did so. He watched the lamp for a little longer to make sure that it would stay on, before he lowered his head and picked up the roll of paper. He unrolled it and looked at the page facing upwards. It took a few seconds for the words to register in his mind but when they did, his heart stopped for a beat before starting up again in double time, his eyes filled with tears causing his vision to blur. The paper in his hand crumpled the paper before he flung it at the wall, his scream of anguish bouncing off of the walls of the cell.

He continued to scream, tearing at his hair, scratching at his skin as the words continued to race across his mind. When the screams stopped tearing from his throat, but the tears were still running down his face, he retreated back to the corner of the cell that he had made his own. He curled into himself as he lay on the floor, his one good arm wrapped around himself as if he was trying to hold himself together. His tears tracked down his face and lost themselves in his hair. His breath hitched into sobs as he tried to control himself. He turned his face into his shoulder, his eyes screwed shut against the tears, the words still burning in his mind.

‘Captain America Dead!’

********************************************

The drug to keep him sedated was thrumming through his veins, it wasn’t enough to knock him out completely but it was enough to make him woozy and compliant enough to stay still. He had a flash of memory to another time that he was strapped to a slab in another room, but he couldn’t grab on to the right details. The people seemed the same but different at the same time. The room could have been anywhere in the world. The men in white coats surrounded the table, muttering to themselves in quiet voices. The sound washed over him, not making a great impact on him. His right arm was strapped to the table but his left arm was left free, he couldn’t understand why though. Why would these people be interested in what was left of a once fully functional arm? He closed his eyes against the light blazing in the room, his mind turning to events that he wasn’t sure were memories or dreams but were pleasant enough to watch unfold.

A man was clasping his hand on to his shoulder in a dim bar somewhere just beyond his reach, the same man was illuminated by flames as the blood roared in his ears, he was staring up at the stars before looking at the man who had a small smile on his and the light of the stars reflected in his blue eyes, and his heart was thumping with one word ‘home, home, home, home’.

There was a child with golden hair running ahead of him through streets that he didn’t recognise. The boy would look back at him and laugh, before putting on a burst of speed and racing ahead again. He tried to keep up but the boy was always out of reach. The boy seemed familiar and he was about to call out the name that haunted his dreams, when a voice cut through the dream and brought him hurtling back to the land of the living,

“Sergeant Barnes.”

His eyes snapped open as the familiar voice of Doctor Zola slid over him. He tensed, the straps holding him down creaking under the sudden tension. He looked up at Zola, unable to speak, as Zola started to move around the table, picking up instruments as he did so. Zola was smiling, though it didn’t meet his watery eyes at all. He looked back over at him and said, in a low voice,

“You are to be the new fist of Hydra.”

Bucky followed Zola’s gaze down to his left side and let out a small cry of horror. Where once had been the stump of his left arm, a new, shining metal arm took its place. As he began to try and move it, the plates whirred and moved. It was beautiful in an alien way, but all he could think of was wanting it off of his body as soon as possible. One of Zola’s assistants, seeing that he was now able to move his arm, walked to his side and bent to examine it. As he did so, the arm flew out and the hand wrapped around his throat. The assistants hand flew to try and remove his hand from his throat but it was soon too late, there was too much power in the arm to be pulled away by one man. He opened his hand and the man dropped to the floor, he was about to pull himself off of the bed when Zola plunged a syringe into his chest, smiling as he did so. Instantly, he felt his eyes grow heavy and the energy leave his body. The new arm dropped to the table top with a clang, and distantly he heard Zola’s voice again,

“Put him on ice.”

******************************************  
He was back in the cell again. He hadn’t been kept in the tank for long, the guards had been ordered to bring him out again, to experiment on him some more. He was to train, to alter his body to grow accustomed to the weight of the new arm hanging at his side, to get used to the strength that he now possessed. The first night out of the tank, he had scratched at his shoulder where the metal joined his flesh. He had pulled at his skin, trying to dig deep enough to rip the metal from his body, but he had been unsuccessful. When the guards had realised what he had done, he had been beaten severely. Zola had stared at him with his lips pursed into a thin line before he ordered the guards to put him back in his cell. He had been thrown into the darkest corner of the cell and had watched as the door slammed shut and the lamp flicked off. As the darkness descended, he retreated further into his own mind, into the dreams that had begun to make themselves known to him and haunted his waking moments. Of blue eyes and golden hair, of a crooked spine and artist’s hands. In his own mind, he was safe.

*******************************************

The first time they used electricity on him, he cried. The pain was unbearable. The waves of agony would roll across his mind and down into his body causing him to jerk against the restraints that they had placed him in. When they finally turned the machine off, he was left gasping for breath, his heart pounding and stuttering in his chest. His head had lolled to his chest as he tried to fill his lungs with oxygen, the men around him making notes on to their boards before moving back to the machines. He was roughly pulled from his seat and stood on his feet, when he stumbled he received a sharp blow to the stomach and forced back to his feet. He pulled all of the tattered remains of his strength into staying on his feet and staring at the floor. Orders were barked around the room and he was being dragged across to the tank, it’s door hanging open. As they shoved him inside and slammed the door, as he peered through the small glass window, as the ice and the cold crept into his marrow, he thought he could see blue eyes and a familiar voice calling his name.

******************************************

His orders were simple. He had been told that the target was a threat to the stability of the world, to freedom and to democracy, that he was the only thing standing between them and world domination. A rifle had been placed in his hands and the coordinates had been given to both him and to his handler. As he watched through the scope of his rifle, aimed towards the window of the suburban brownstone, he watched the scene unfold. The target had left their home at 0700 that morning and it was now 1757. They would be home in precisely 3 minutes leaving him 5 minutes to complete the job. He didn’t need the extra two minutes, the target had a bullet between the eyes the moment she stepped into the room, a child’s screams shattering the calm of the suburban street.

*******************************************

He was crouched on the rooftop, watching the parade of people below him. The convoy of cars moved slowly until he could see his target through the scope of his rifle. The man was sat in the back of the car, raised up so that he would have a better view of the crowd and that the crowd would have a better view of him. He waited until just the right moment before squeezing the trigger. As the bullet left his rifle, he turned and moved away, his task complete. If he had stayed behind, he would have watched the carnage unfold below him, the man’s head exploding, his body falling and his wife frantically trying to gather up pieces of his skull, the blood seeping into her pink dress.

********************************************

The man didn’t seem frightening, nor did he seem to be the type of man that would warrant a death sentence but it was not his place to question his orders. He watched and waited for the man’s friends to leave him alone before moving, picking his way across the rooftop to find a way into the man’s apartment. He slid the window up slowly, waiting for a noise that would alert the target to his presence. Nothing happened. He crept through the apartment, light on his feet and making no sound. He rounded the corner of the room and came face to face with the target. He was small, blond with bright blue eyes, his mouth hanging open in shock. A pain raced through his chest, was he malfunctioning? The target took a deep breath, preparing to scream or shout probably, and he raised his gun. The sound was deadened and the target dropped to the ground, mouth still open, eyes distant. He turned back and climbed out of the window, closing it behind him. He dropped into an alley and vomited, the bile burning his throat and mouth. He was still crouched in the alley, shaking, when his handlers found him hours later.

*****************************************  
The children were crowded around him as he taught them the holds and the ways to remove themselves from the holds that others could put them in. They were all good, all talented, but some were slower to accept his teachings than others, would look towards the masters and mistresses before doing as he told them. He tried to keep his voice soft and level as he spoke to them, he wasn’t sure why. The masters and the mistresses did not afford the children the same luxury. They would shout at the children and the children would jump into action. If he was allowed to, the asset thought that he might feel sorry for these children. But he wasn’t allowed to. Instead he was tasked with training the new generation of soldiers that would help to shape the future. 

The Russians called this place the ‘Red Room’. He did not know why. One man told him it used to be painted red, another told him it was because of the blood that was spilled in it. He could believe that. The children were trained to be brutal, vicious, to break each other’s necks if they were told to. There was one girl, a tiny girl with blood red hair, who was the most vicious of them all. She was small and fast and she was one of his favourites. Another of his favourites was the equally small and fast blonde one, who tried so hard to outdo the red haired one. Their rivalry was what helped to keep them alive. They tried so hard to beat each other, that they were the examples to the other children. They were never starved, never beaten without cause. They would be the ones who would survive. 

He would smile at them both, the red haired one smiling back and the blonde haired one watching with anger in her heart as her nemesis tried to monopolise his attention. He always made sure that he gave the blonde on the attention she deserved though, she tugged at something in his chest that he hadn’t felt in years. The fears of malfunction would run through his mind before he calmed himself and held her to him. They were his spiders and they would make the world burn.

******************************************

“страстное желание.”  
“ржавые.”  
“Семнадцать.”  
“рассвет.”  
“печь.”  
“Девять.”  
“доброкачественный.”  
“Возвращение домой.”  
“Один.”  
“Грузовой автомобиль.”

“Доброе утро, солдат.”  
“Готов выполнить.”

*****************************************

The white haired man’s neck snapped beneath his hand and the woman lost her life to his hand covering her mouth. The car was smoking from beneath the hood, the doors left open. He moved the man back into the driver’s seat, knowing that it would be reported as an accident instead of a murder. Once he was satisfied with the scene he moved to the trunk of the car and removed the package that had been described to him. He handed it to one of his handlers and moved back to check the scene. Then, as he had been ordered, he looked directly at the security camera, raised his gun and shot once.

****************************************

“Посадите его в кресло.”

“Американцы в скором времени займет его.”

He was being moved. A guard came and stood in front of him, motioning for him to get up. He stood to attention before following the guard into another room. There was the chamber, it’s door hanging wide. To the side was the chair. He sat in it, watching as they strapped him down before turning the power on. As usual, the pain was extraordinary. Before long though it stopped and they carried him to the chamber. As he stood facing the room, a blond haired man entered the room. His face was handsome, but there was something lurking underneath. The man watched as the door was shut, and all he could see through the window as the ice formed around him was the blond man shaking hands with one of the guards.

****************************************

The bond haired man was Alexander Pierce. He was the boss, ordering two dark haired men to be the handlers of their newest asset. The men, Rumlow and Rollins, had the look of bullies about them, almost like they knew that they could get you to do what they wanted because they could hurt you. The asset recognised this look, felt it ping something in the back of his mind, but could never hold the thought for long enough to make sense of it. They had never actually hurt the asset though, the threats were many and varied, the punches and kicks hard and bruising, but the asset had suffered worse at the hands of those who had made him. They never spoke to him, unless it was to give him direct orders or the threats that they never followed up on, but they mastered the talent of speaking over him, of bending their words around his form to reach each other. The asset knew that he was not to react to these words, but that he was meant to hear them and absorb them. Pierce never treated the asset harshly unless it was deserved, if he spoke back or if he failed to complete a mission, then the asset knew that Pierce would not treat him well. He knew that he deserved it, that was all that mattered.

Pierce did not often pull the asset out of his tank, every time he did, the asset could calculate how long it had been by the lines on Pierce’s face or by the grey streaking his blond hair. The asset knew that every time he was brought from the tank it was going to be of the utmost importance, that Pierce was charged with protecting the world, and that if Pierce needed him, then it was truly serious. The missions were never difficult, sometimes the travel was a chore but the actual mission was always easy. The asset had seen the world, had been to every country in the world, had seen monuments and temples that most people could only dream of, but each city in each country that had been visited by the asset would never be the same again.

This time when the asset was brought out of cryo, the times had changed greatly. There were more lines on the faces of his handlers, but he could sense the importance of this mission as easily as he could feel the metal arm at his side. He was told to report to Pierce as soon as possible, hours later he was letting himself in to the house. He sat at the small table in the kitchen, shrouded in darkness watching the movements in the small house. Pierce himself had passed by a few times but had not seen him so he did not draw his attention.

Night had truly fallen when Pierce made his way into the kitchen, clearly distracted by something. He had started to prepare a drink for himself when he finally caught sight of the asset seated at his table. He did not react, only picking up the carton of milk and showing it to the shadow in the kitchen.

“Want some milk?”

The asset continued to hold himself still. He didn’t know if this was a trick question or whether Pierce actually wanted an answer but he was soon given the answer when Pierce moved around the counter and began to speak. 

“The timetable has moved. Our window is limited. Two targets, level six. They already cost me Zola. I want confirmed death in ten hours.”

They were interrupted by Pierce’s housemaid as she came back into the room, staring in surprise at the shadow that was the asset. Still he did not speak, he had not been ordered to. He watched as Pierce snatched up the sidearm that had been resting on the table in front of them and shot her three times. The shots rang throughout the house, reverberating in his mind. When Pierce was satisfied that they would not be interrupted again, eh turned back to the asset. When he saw him still sat there he raised an eyebrow,

“You will not speak about what happened here. Understood?”

The asset inclined his head and Pierce nodded. He motioned for the asset to leave, picking up his phone as he did so. The asset knew that he would have to rendezvous with his handlers to gather what intel they had before moving on to their new targets. There was a banging in his mind, a memory or a dream was wanting to make itself known to him, but instead he shoved it down, blanketing it in his own subconscious. He could not afford to be distracted now. 

******************************************  
The targets had been traced to a car heading along the highway. The asset’s handlers were sure it was them because one of the agents, a Jasper Sitwell, had missed a check in and was immediately reported to be missing. When the news had reached Pierce, he had passed on the message that Sitwell was to be taken out, with extreme prejudice. They couldn’t afford to keep him in the fold when it was certain that he had spilled everything he knew to the Captain. His handlers had commandeered a truck and were driving them along the highway in pursuit of the car belonging to an ex- Air Force paratrooper, Sam Wilson. He could see the car ahead of them and he prepared to leap on to the roof of the car. One of his handler patted him on the leg and he climbed on to the roof and judged the distance, before leaping and landing lightly on the roof of the car. He needed to take out Sitwell before immobilising the car in order to take out the Captain and his two allies. He found where Sitwell was sitting and punched through the glass of the window. He reached in and found Sitwell’s jacket, taking hold and then dragging him through the shattered glass. The man screamed before being hit by a truck going the other way. He knelt on the roof of the car, the wind screaming past him, as he pulled out a gun and shot at the three remaining passengers. Suddenly, the car braked causing him to fly forward and twist in mid-air, dragging his hand along the ground to slow himself, his fingers carving holes in the asphalt as he slowed to a halt. He drew himself up to his full height and stared at the car through his goggles, there was a crash and the car started to move forward again. When it was close enough, he launched himself back on to the roof of the car, punching through the windshield and grabbing the steering wheel, throwing it aside. One of the passengers began to shoot, so he jumped off of the car and on to the truck following them. 

He watched as the car swerved over the lanes of the highway, before motioning the driver of the truck to speed up and hit them from behind. They did so, causing the car to ricochet off the wall and begin to roll. Before the car hit the road again, he could just see three people drop to the road, using the door to cushion their landing. The car continued to roll, spraying shards of glass and pieces of metal high in to the air, before finally coming to a stop. The truck stopped, and everyone got out. The asset was handed a gun and he began to take aim. He aimed at the brightly painted shield of the Captain, who pushed the red haired woman out of the way before taking the hit to his shield. He flew backwards and off the bridge, the sounds of a crash from below making the asset smile behind his mask.

The men advanced on the two remaining on the bridge. The men around the asset were firing on them but the asset held back, he didn’t want to waste the ammunition on shots that would not make a difference. The red haired woman fired at him, so he raised his gun again. The explosion of the car made her leap over the divide and race to cross the lanes of traffic. As she ducked behind a car parked on the other side, he fired another grenade. The car exploded and he walked to the wall. He knew that she would have jumped to the road below them and would come this way, there was no way that she would have allowed him to hit her. He traded guns with one of the men and waited. The seconds ticked by and when he thought he saw a flicker of a shadow he leaned forward, but a shot rang out and he felt the glass of his goggles break. He sat down heavily, before pulling them off. He stood, leaned over the side of the bridge and begin to fire randomly before he saw her shock of red hair running away from the bridge and down the street. He turned his head to the side slightly, so he could mutter to one of his henchmen,

“У меня есть ее. Найти его.”

He launched himself off of the bridge, landing heavily on the car below him. He stalked off, following the people running from the bride knowing that he would find the red haired woman. He stalked through the streets, watching the people run from him, they needn’t have worried, he wasn’t here for them. As he moved down one street he strained his ears to catch the voice belonging to the red haired woman. He crouched down and pulled a small bomb from his jacket before rolling it under one of the parked cars. Within seconds the bomb had exploded. Just as he turned again, she was on him, her legs wrapped around his upper body and her trusty wire trying to get at his throat. He managed to trap his hand between the wire and his neck, before reaching up and grabbing hold of her. He pulled forward as he dropped his head to his chest, launching her over his head and into a car in front of them. 

He reached down to pick up his gun and as he raised it he caught sight of a small disc leaving her hand. It landed on his arm and sent an electric charge through it, causing his arm to short out. He ripped the disc off and noticed that it had left a burned area on one of the plates, feeling his arm power up again, he swung it around and stalked forward again. He needed to end her. As he moved down the new street he caught sight of her red hair through the windows of one of the cars, he took aim and watched with satisfaction as she dropped. He calculated which of the cars she would be hiding behind and ran towards it. He leaped on to the roof of a stationary car and aimed.

From behind him came the sound of running footsteps, he looked and saw the Captain advancing on him. He dropped the gun and swung with his metal arm at the shield that had been raised up. Pushing it aside he kicked the Captain off the car and fired in quick succession. He clambered off the car, adrenaline coursing through him. In his mind he saw the movements that would bring the Captain to his knees, the final blow that would end his life. Every time he fired at him the Captain managed to block them with the shield. 

Furious, the asset moved into hand to hand combat, swinging the Captain around until, when they came away he held the shield. He felt its weight on his arm, and felt a flash of familiarity. He had held this shield before.  
Before he could continue the thought he launched the shield at the Captain, who ducked out of the way, leaving it to embed itself in a van behind him. The asset relished the challenge that was now presented to him. He knew that the Captain was enhanced, just like he was, and he had never had the opportunity to fight someone who was also enhanced. This was going to be interesting.

The fight was fast and brutal. They both took hits that should have felled an ordinary man, but these two were not ordinary. Eventually, the Captain managed to get the upper hand and he flung the asset over his head. The asset felt his mask slipping off of his face and falling to the ground, just as he rolled into a crouch before standing and facing the Captain again. The Captain had an odd look on his face, as if the asset had reached into his chest and ripped out his still beating heart. He stood loosely, his shield hanging at his side, before saying in a choked voice,

“Bucky?”

The voice of the Captain caused something to tighten in the asset’s own chest. His whole body seemed to freeze and unfreeze quickly, his heart pounding double time and a shouting in his brain started up. He looked into the face of the Captain, and as he did so he could hear echoes in his mind. Echoes of that name being said with annoyance, with fondness, with love. The memories floated out of reach and in distress the asset spoke,

“Who the hell is Bucky?”

The moment was smashed as the flying man kicked him to the ground. As the asset stood, his thoughts were a mess, he hesitated before lifting his gun. He was stopped by the red haired woman firing one of his own guns at him, causing an explosion to cover his frantic escape. His head was pounding with the name that the Captain had spoked ‘Bucky, Bucky, Bucky, BUCKY!’ He shook his head and concentrated on making his way to the bank that they were using as their base, he only hoped that Pierce wouldn’t be too angry with him.

*******************************************

His arm had sustained severe damage in the fight on the highway, the circuits were crackling and sparking from the woman’s metal disc. He was sat in the chair in the basement of the bank while two of the scientists most trusted by Pierce poked around in the circuitry of his arm. As they did so, he felt himself turn inwards and images and sound began to race across his mind. A soft voice calling him by his title, an image of a train, a man shouting his name and reaching to him, falling, falling, more men dragging him through the snow, his arm- the metal gleaming, a smiling man in glasses, ice, cold, cold….

He flung his arm out to the side, sending the man seated next to him flying. The guards all pointed their guns at him. He didn’t know how long he was sat there before Pierce entered the room. He motioned for the guns to be lowered, which was done with extreme resistance. Distantly he noticed that Pierce crouched in front of him and spoke to him, but he was still chasing the tail of his thoughts, a name was just out of reach out he couldn’t catch it. A stinging slap to his face brought him back into the moment, and he blinked a few times before looking to Pierce and asking,

“The man on the bridge, who was he?”

Pierce responded that he had met him earlier in the week on a different assignment, he felt that to be partly true but he couldn’t understand why. He desperately tried to gather the frayed ends of the thoughts that raced in front of his eyes. Before looking back at Pierce and whispering,

“I knew him.”

Pierce sighed, and drew up a seat just in front of him. He ducked his head slightly. There was a pressure building in his head that made him want to cry, but he knew that to cry in front of Pierce was to invite pain. Maybe Pierce would be able to tell him why there were thoughts in his head that he didn’t think belonged to him? He bit his tongue and waited for Pierce to speak,

“Your work has been a gift to mankind. You shaped this century, and I need you to do it one more time. Society is at a tipping point between order and chaos. Tomorrow morning we’re gonna give it a push. But if you don’t do your part, I can’t do mine, and Hydra can’t give the world the freedom it deserves.”

Blinking rapidly, he realised that Pierce hadn’t answered his question. The urge to cry became stronger and stronger. He breathed a couple of times, trying to quash the urge before he looked back up at Pierce, his voice breaking,

“But I knew him.”

Pierce sighed, and the asset knew that he had disappointed him. He stood and exchanged a few words with one of the scientists. Before too long, the asset felt rough hands pushing him back into his seat, with a block being placed in his mouth before the machine was turned on. The whirring grew louder and louder, as pieces of machinery lowered onto his head and face. The current that raced through him was strong, and perversely, he was glad for the block in his mouth, otherwise he would have bitten clean through his tongue. He couldn’t scream with the block in his mouth, but sounds came out nonetheless. He shook in the seat, his hands clenching and releasing, his muscles spasming. As the pain rolled across his body, the thoughts that had plagued him began to float away too. He desperately clawed at them, to bring them back to keep them, but they disappeared like smoke in the wind, leaving him weakly thinking,

“Come back…. Come back….”

********************************************

Pierce had told him that he would not accept failure, that the Captain had to be destroyed this time, no exceptions. The asset and only nodded, and moved to the helicarriers to get himself into an advantageous position. The workers were busily carrying out last minute preparations and took no notice of him as he stalked through the chaos. He did not know how long the helicarriers would remain on the ground for but he had been told that the Captain would stop at nothing to keep them on the ground. He hadn’t been waiting for long when the voice rang out, asking for anyone still loyal to SHIELD to stand with him and fight back against Hydra. The asset knew, the Captain was here. 

As he crossed the concourse he spotted the Captain and the flying man land just ahead of him. He threw himself at them, dancing out of the way of the bullets that the flying man sent his way. He was beginning to get extremely annoyed with him. Who had flying back up, anyway? In a rage he cast a line, catching one of his wings and pulling him to the ground. As the flying man tried to get to his feet, he tackled him pushing him towards the edge of the helicarriers. Once there, he kicked the flying man hard in the chest and sent him over the edge, his cry echoing in the swirling wind.

They were trying to take out each of the helicarriers, the Captain and the flying man would have split up and taken one each, whoever finished first would take on the last one. That was where he would wait then. He made his way over to the centre of the last helicarrier and placed himself in front of the central unit. He smirked to himself, whoever wanted to access the unit would have to get through him first. It wasn’t long before the Captain stood across from him. For a moment, there was silence as they stared at each other, the Captain clearly trying to memorise the asset’s face and the asset cataloguing the ways that he could take the Captain down. The Captain’s voice echoed in the space as he spoke,

“People are gonna die, Buck. I can’t let that happen. Please don’t make me do this.”

The asset chose not to respond, even as a voice grew in his mind, a voice that was screaming to stop this and to go the Captain, to take him into his arms and to tell him that he was sorry. The asset buried that voice, he had a job to do. Without warning, and clearly attempting to catch the asset off guard, the Captain threw his shield across the gap between them, and with that they fought. They held nothing back, blows that would have broken the bones of ordinary men were brushed off like the wind. They fell from the platform to the glass below, the chip that the Captain was meant to replace flying between them. The asset held it tight in his hand, pushing the Captain away before slipping to ground. His flesh arm was being held behind him by the Captain as it held on to the chip. When the asset refused to let go of it, the Captain pulled his arm back sharply. There was a pop in his shoulder, and the asset screamed in pain, slumping slightly. The Captain was on him in a flash, his legs pinning the assets arms to his sides and his arms tight around the assets neck. The asset was struggling to breathe; the air wasn’t coming as quickly as normal. Before too long, he fell unconscious.

When he awoke, the Captain had returned to the platform. The asset struggled to his feet and pulled out one of his guns. He aimed it at the Captain and fired three times. Two were direct hits. As he stood and lived his victory, a shudder ran through the helicarrier followed by the sound of explosions from outside. He looked out of the glass that made up the belly of the helicarrier and saw the others shooting at each other; the Captain and his friends had clearly been successful. As the explosions rocked the helicarrier a beam fell towards him, pinning him beneath it. Pain radiated out from his legs and he yelled, his hands couldn’t grip the beam to pull it away from his legs enough. 

A thud to one side alerted him to the fact that the Captain had dropped to the glass, blood seeping through his uniform where the asset’s bullets had pierced it. In a display of his superhuman strength, the Captain lifted the beam and allowed the asset to pulls himself free and into a standing position. They faced each other, each injured and in pain. The asset felt confusion racing through him as he watched his target help him from the rubble. The voice that had been shouting in his head grew louder and louder, fighting with the voice of the asset.

“You know me.”

The asset lunged out with his metal arm, catching the Captain and knocking him to the ground.

“No, I don’t!”

The Captain staggered to his feet, looking back at the asset.

“Bucky, you’ve known me your whole life. Your name is James Buchanan Barnes.”

“Shut up!”

The asset swung out again, sending the Captain back to the ground. As the Captain got back to his feet he pulled the helmet off of his head. The face that had haunted the asset stared at him, beaten and bleeding but with determination shining in his blue eyes.

“I’m not gonna fight you. You’re my friend.”

The asset watched as the Captain dropped his red, white and blue shield. It dropped through the broken glass and disappeared into the water below them. Rage filled the asset at this, how could the Captain stand there and face his death with no protection? Why wouldn’t he fight back, dammit?! He threw himself at the Captain, picking him up and then dropping him back on to the ground. He growled down at him,

“You’re my mission.”

He picked his fist up and brought it repeatedly down onto the Captain’s face, each word was punctuated by a blow. He felt the bone of the Captain’s cheekbone and eye socket crack and break, he knew that the blood vessels underneath his skin would burst and break creating vivid patterns under his skin.

“You! Are! My! Mission!”

He stopped suddenly, his chest heaving, his fist still held high. He stared down at the Captain who spoke through broken lips in a quiet voice,

“Then finish it. Cause I’m with you to the end of the line.”

With those words the roaring in the asset’s head grew louder and louder until it reached a fever pitch. The two parts of his brain warring with each other, screaming for control, when suddenly an image flew into his mind’s eye. A much smaller version of the Captain stood in front of a door, a hand that he recognised as his own on his shoulder, the small smile that he knew from memory, and the echo of his voice saying those fateful words. Before he could speak again however, the glass gave way and he was left hanging from the helicarrier and watched as the Captain fell into the river.

*********************************************

The water was warm as it broke over his skin. There was a taste of fuel and metal to it that he knew came from the helicarriers that were still falling around them. He waded deeper in to the water, trying to catch a glimpse of the man that had fallen from him. Faintly, he could see him. He was unconscious and didn’t appear to be breathing. He wrapped his working arm around his waist and kicked towards the surface, lungs screaming with the effort. When they finally broke the surface and the asset had pulled them to a place where he could stand, he gripped the shoulder of the Captain’s uniform in his metal hand and pulled him to the shore. Once there, he dropped the Captain and watched anxiously for the familiar rise and fall of his chest. Finally, the blond man coughed and expelled some of the water from his lungs. Nodding, the asset turned and walked down the shoreline to find a way to contact someone for help. He set his right shoulder against a tree and popped it back into place, there was nothing he could do about the water still pouring from between the joints of his metal arm, but that could wait. Captain America needed help.

******************************************  
The news was reporting that Captain America had been released from hospital only a week after being admitted with near fatal injuries. On TV screens and the front of magazines, the picture of Captain America and his friends Sam Wilson and Natasha Romanoff, showed some of the damage that had been sustained by the Captain. No one knew how he had received such awful injuries just as no one knew who it was that had contacted the emergency services. But the public rejoiced that Captain America was safe, as the politicians tried to make sense of the damage left in the wake of the incident at the Triskelion.   
The Smithsonian was, as usual, teeming with people. Even more seemed to be heading into the Captain America exhibit since the news of his involvement in the downfall of SHIELD had come to light. People from all countries and backgrounds stood and watched the transformation of small, skinny Steve Rogers into the hulking figure of Captain America. No one paid any attention to the man that had crept in unnoticed, who blended in so well in his dark clothes. Who had been stood in front of the mural to poor James Barnes for nearly half an hour. No one paid any attention to James Buchanan Barnes as he stood and read about his life, and no one noticed the tears making their way down his face as he read. 

********************************************

Romania was warm at this time of year. The market was bustling as people went to and fro, going about their business the same as any other day. He tried to blend in as much as he could, but that meant that he was wearing a number of layers and a glove so as to hide the arm. He watched the people move about the market unaware of who he was and what he had done, instead just seeing another person enjoying the nice weather. It was a novel feeling, to be completely ignored and treated as just a normal human. He thought he quite enjoyed it. He stood in front of the fruit stand, enjoying the different types of fruit on display before making his choice. He had a short conversation with the seller, thankful that he had learned Romanian during the 80’s and that he could still remember it.   
Once he had made his purchase he turned away to begin his search and perusal of some of the other stalls. But his attention was caught by the man at the newspaper stand. He was staring at him, a newspaper held lightly in his hands, before he dropped the paper and began to run. A sick feeling began to make itself known in his gut. He quickly made his way over to the newspaper stand, looking at the front page quickly, his heart rising into his mouth. The headline screamed about the bombing of the UN building in Vienna, the paper went on to name the Winter Soldier as the man responsible even including a blurry and out of focus shot of the culprit.   
His heart started working overtime. He knew that he was innocent but there would be many people who wouldn’t care, who would throw him down a well as soon as they got their hands on him, or worse. He dropped the paper, quickly scanning the faces of the people around him to make sure that no one else had made the connection that the newspaper seller had. He started to move quickly and purposefully through the crowd towards the small room in which he had been living.   
When he reached the building he raced up the stairs, moving in to his room and bolting the door. But when he looked into the room he saw something that caused his heart to jolt. Stood in the middle of his home was the Captain. He stood stock still. The last time he had seen the Captain, he had been fighting an army of robots in Sokovia. The last time he had seen the Captain in person, he preferred not to think about. The Captain turned to him, placing one of his notebooks on the table before speaking,

“You know who I am?”

He sighed, before giving a brief nod of his head.

“You’re Steve.”

**Author's Note:**

> Here are some of the translations that I used when writing this, if they're wrong please let me know!!  
> Translations:  
> German  
> Jede Änderung? – Any change?  
> Nein. – No.  
> Der Arzt wird ihn bald wieder zu sehen. – The doctor will want to see him again soon.  
> Er geht nirgendwo hin. – He’s not going anywhere.  
> Doktor Zola. – Doctor Zola.   
> Guten Tag, Sergeant Barnes. – Good Afternoon, Sergeant Barnes.  
> Ihr beide. Folge mir. – You two. Follow me.
> 
> Russian  
> Здесь! Я нашел что-то. – Over here! I’ve found something!  
> Что это? – What is it?  
> Мужчина. – A man.  
> Какие? – What?  
> Кто он? – Who is he?  
> Я думаю, что он американец. – I think he’s American.  
> страстное желание. – Longing.  
> ржавые. – Rusted.  
> Семнадцать. – Seventeen.  
> рассвет. – Daybreak.  
> печь. – Furnace.  
> Девять. – Nine.   
> доброкачественный. – Benign.  
> Возвращение домой. – Homecoming.   
> Один. – One.  
> Грузовой автомобиль. – Freight car.   
> Доброе утро, солдат. – Good Morning, Soldier.  
> Готов выполнить. – Ready to comply.   
> Посадите его в кресло. – Put him in the chair.   
> Американцы в скором времени займет его. The Americans will take him soon.  
> У меня есть ее. Найти его. – I have her. Find him.


End file.
